


The Language of Family

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Horse Raised Knowledge [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, I always look for an excuse to write five and one fics, Multiple prompts actually all in the same vein blended together, Prompt Fill, five and one fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words that fall from d'Artagnan's mouth make no sense but the horse calms under his hands, as if it is something like the nicker of a dam to her foal.</p><p>It has happened before, but this is the first time they are close enough to realize it is not an odd mismatched word, but a spoken language. It just isn't one any of them had ever heard before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Road to Le Havre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts), [Sigmund](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigmund/gifts).



> Well, after two weeks of fighting the muses, I can honestly say...I AM SO HAPPY TO WORK ON THIS!!!
> 
> Ugh, I wanted to work on this, but I promised not to till I was done with Chapter 4 of the wing!fic (you do not have to read), and just...yeah, that took forever.
> 
> *pouts, then brightens*
> 
> ONTO FIC!!!
> 
> Based on these two prompts;
> 
> AZGirl: (2) The guys hear d'Art using his special language with his 'children' and ask about it. Aramis understands bits and thinks it's a rare dialect of Spanish? Maybe they even encourage him to teach them some for use out in the field so the bad guys are clueless to what they're saying?
> 
> Sigmund: How about one of the boys hearing d'Artagnan speaking his made up language?

The first time any of them  _truly_  hear d’Artagnan using his language (they don’t know what else to call it, when they decide that is what it must be, though that is long after the first time they hear it), it is their first time on the road together.

It is a short trip to Le Havre, but a long one back, if they manage to get their man, and they are pushing their mounts a bit harder than normal in hopes of getting there even faster. At the rate they are going, they will get there at about noon on the third day, and it is the second night when they hear it.

All of their horses are irritable, but Roger has slumped into one of his Moods (he matches his rider well in that, when he gets into a Mood, he is hard to shake out of), which seems to have been caught by Portia. Twice Athos has had to push Roger to the front while d’Artagnan has slowed to the back to separate the pair from, not only each other, but the other horses, Portia fighting d’Artagnan in a rare fit of disobedience while Roger has to be guided around to keep from kicking out.

To say they are thankful that they are stopping for the night, even if it is out of doors, would be an understatement.

They focused on their horses first, Roger snorting irritably and nipping in Athos’s direction, while Tristan managed to get a few bites in on Aramis’s uniform before Aramis got him settled. “What has gotten into them?” Aramis grumbled as Porthos managed to get Petite settled, d’Artagnan rubbing Portia’s neck as the mare shifted from hoof to hoof.

“Well, Portia’s in season, but I don’t know about anyone else,” d’Artagnan answered before he finished getting Portia settled.

“Will that cause a problem?” Athos inquired sharply as he set up a firepit.

“No. She just doesn’t tolerate other horses well. By the time we return to the road after greeting our man, she’ll be back to her usual self,” d’Artagnan answered easily and Aramis huffed.

“Well, that explains Tristan then. He always gets so snippy whenever a mare in heat is around him,” Aramis muttered and d’Artagnan murmured an apology that Aramis accepted with his usual gentle grace.

“What’s wrong with Roger then?” d’Artagnan asked when no one seemed ready to explain  _that_  and Athos gave a low grunt while Porthos chuckled, pulling out their rations from d’Artagnan’s bags.

“Athos and Roger are well matched. Sometimes, Roger just gets into one of these Moods and he doesn’t snap out of it until he is good and ready,” Porthos stated as he handed d’Artagnan his rations before he moved to do the same for a very intently focused on the fire Athos and a quietly laughing Aramis.

“Much like his rider,” Aramis filled in and Athos grumbled something under his breath while d’Artagnan frowned at Roger.

“I don’t think it is something even your magic with horses can handle,” Aramis added and hissed when Porthos punched him in the shoulder.

“Don’t say that word or we’ll lose a probationary Musketeer,” Porthos hissed and Aramis seemed to realize what he had said, out on the road, paling slightly before he issued a soft apology, d’Artagnan accepting it quietly.

“D’Artagnan’s ability with horses notwithstanding, I doubt even you can get to the root of the problem,” Athos responded and d’Artagnan gave a distracted nod.

They were just getting to the point of deciding the watch, when d’Artagnan stood up and headed towards Roger, dinner finished. “When he bites you, I’m not stitching you up,” Aramis stated as he settled back with his saddle as a pillow, pulling his hat over his eyes, having already lost the first dice roll, meaning he was getting a middle of the night shift.

“If he bites me,” d’Artagnan corrected as he made his way over to Roger, murmuring to him softly as he gently took hold of the lead rope.

It was Aramis, who was closest, that heard him first, the softly murmured words of Spanish drawing his attention immediately. He pushed his hat back and sat up, twisting to face the young man, which drew the others’ attention to him.

Porthos was next, catching…he thought it could be Italian, maybe that Gascon language, but it was  _wrong_ , and he lost it quickly.

Athos realized it next and wondered if maybe he should be concerned about d’Artagnan having a fever or if they should be working to cover this recent bout of…interesting that had just happened.

Roger snorted and nuzzled at d’Artagnan’s hand before stomping his hoof and squealing, backing away from d’Artagnan. There was more murmuring, almost pleading, and d’Artagnan pressed his forehead to the spot where the bridle’s noseband settles. The gelding snorted and shifted before slowly settling, though it was obvious he was still irritable.

“Ah,” d’Artagnan suddenly stated and pulled back.

“When was the last time you let him run?” d’Artagnan asked in French, turning to face them, a frown that was almost a pout crossing his face at their stares.

“What?” he asked.

“What was that a rare dialect of Spanish? I’ve never heard it before,” Aramis questioned and d’Artagnan suddenly turned away, focusing on the fetlock.

“No, it’s not. When was the last time he was run?” d’Artagnan asked, quickly, almost sharply, and Athos frowned at him.

“Not for about two weeks. Why do you ask?” Athos inquired and d’Artagnan hummed.

“I’m going to try something in the morning. What watch do I have?” he inquired, tugging at Roger’s mane, the gelding snapping at d’Artagnan’s wrist but not making contact.

“The one following Aramis’s,” Porthos answered and d’Artagnan nodded.

“I best get to sleep now then,” he answered and quickly went to make his bed, curling up tight with his back to him, saddle at his head and his hands as pillow.

“Good night d’Artagnan,” Aramis stated.

“Good night,” d’Artagnan responded and, for all intents and purposes, slipped off into sleep.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan groaned as someone nudged him awake, slowly turning over to push himself up. “If it isn’t Spanish, what is it?” Aramis questioned as d’Artagnan stumbled to his feet.

He rubbed his face with his hands and looked over at Aramis. “None of your business,” d’Artagnan answered before he tugged his cloak on and picked up the saddle, and his saddlebags, carrying both closer to Portia.

*~*~*

The three Inseparables woke to a whistle similar to that of a bird, but wrong.

They were on their feet, awake, if bleary eyed, ready for a fight, only to realize the whistle came from d’Artagnan.

It took them a bit longer to realize that the horse charging right up to him before curling around him to keep from killing him, was Roger.

They stood in silent awe as, each time the gelding started to get too far away, d’Artagnan would whistle, Portia would perk up, and Roger would come careening back to him.

And as the dawn’s light stretched across the sky, Roger’s coat seemed to  _shine_.

(It should be noted that he was perfectly behaved for the rest of the ride to, and from, Le Havre, even if Athos, understandably, was not.)

 


	2. In a Fever (Horse Illness, Mentioned Multiple Horse Death)

Aramis leaned against the opening of the lean-to as d'Artagnan tucked the blanket more securely around Portia, the mare snorting softly. "Easy, easy," d'Artagnan murmured softly as he carefully lifted the mare's head up to settle in his lap.

He began to murmur softly in that language again, scratching her cheek when she pushed closer.

Portia had been one of five horses to come down with a fever that was lucky to have missed Roger. Of those five horses, only Portia remained fighting, the other four having succumbed either to the fever or to an injury caused when they slipped and fell because of the fever.

Aramis couldn't be sure what would come of Portia, but was thankful they still had light duty during Porthos's twelve week recovery after being hit in the shoulder with an ax left over by a good margin, because if Portia gave a turn for the worse…

Well, Aramis was praying for the mare’s recovery, but if she didn’t recover, at least they would be there to catch d’Artagnan when he fell into his grief.

Aramis was almost willing to swear it was like watching a parent pray over their child who had fallen sick, and he is also sure that d’Artagnan’s mourning would be that of a parent whose child had died.

It might even be as strong as Aramis’s own grief still for his own unnamed and dead born, if he looked at it that way, child.

D’Artagnan continued to speak in his language and then looked up at Aramis. “Is the warm mash done?” d’Artagnan asked and Aramis nodded, unsurprised when d’Artagnan frowned.

“Why didn’t you tell me? It has to be warm to…”

“Porthos is watching it,” Aramis interrupted softly and the boy fell silent.

The mare nickered and d’Artagnan looked down before pressing his forehead to that spot on her neck, parallel almost to her ear, murmuring in that language again.

D’Artagnan’s language.

Aramis decided he was very thankful only the horses and themselves heard it and looked over when Porthos walked over with a bowl of the bran mash d’Artagnan had taught them to make. “Here we go,” Porthos greeted and d’Artagnan looked up, Porthos’s fingers nearly releasing the bowl at the obvious sorrow there.

“Thank you,” he whispered and took the bowl.

Porthos was probably as surprised as Aramis was the first time he saw d’Artagnan just scoop some of the mash up with his fingers and press it into the mare’s mouth.

The smile that crossed d’Artagnan’s face was as broken as before, however, as the mare began to lick at the mash, d’Artagnan murmuring in his language the entire time.

*~*~*

“Does he always sleep with Portia or is this a recent development with the fever spike?” Athos asked, joining Aramis in watching d’Artagnan sleep with his head pillowed on Portia’s shoulder while the mare wheezed in her sleep.

The meadows bought by Treville to use for their horses to do controlled maneuvers (as he called giving the horses a day off) and to keep the sick from the healthy had been in constant use by d’Artagnan since Portia had fallen ill.

Athos was already starting to mentally prepare himself for holding onto the boy to keep him from joining his mare in a pit.

“No, he’s been doing that since the beginning,” Aramis stated.

“Treville says to keep an eye on him, in case things go wrong,” Athos stated.

“Stop that,” d’Artagnan muttered and they both looked over at him, only to see he hadn’t moved.

“Stop what?” Aramis asked and was surprised by how fast d’Artagnan sat up, twisting as he did so to glare at them.

“Portia didn’t die on the day she was born and she won’t die now! She’ll live, beyond all your expectations!” d’Artagnan snapped and slowly lowered himself back down on the mare’s shoulder, who hadn’t even twitched upon his outburst.

“You can’t force her to live through your sheer stubbornness!” Aramis responded.

“It isn’t mine, it’s hers. I’m just fostering it with my own. What do you think I’ve been saying to her?” d’Artagnan answered with raising his head.

“I wouldn’t know, you won’t teach me that language of yours you’re speaking,” Aramis answered and d’Artagnan made a disgruntled sound.

“Drop it Aramis,” he warned and, when Aramis opened his mouth to argue, Athos covered his mouth, shaking his head.

“Provoking him won’t help. Let him have this, before he loses the last tie to his home,” Athos stated and Aramis huffed through his nose before he gave in.

Athos lowered his hand and looked back over at the pair, wondering where the pit would be dug.

*~*~*

“I can’t believe it,” Aramis stated, Porthos letting out a low whistle in agreement.

Athos stayed silent, though his thoughts mirrored those of his friends, the sight of Portia walking after d’Artagnan with her nose pressed into his palm a surprising, but welcome, sight.

D’Artagnan merely smiled smugly at them before he focused on the mare who had, despite all odds, made it through.

“That boy works miracles on horses,” Porthos stated, watching as d’Artagnan walked with Portia, the mare following without any hesitation.

“I would say he works miracles on jaded Musketeers as well,” Aramis stated, pushing his back slightly as he looked over at Athos, who was pointedly watching d’Artagnan.

“Oh, most definitely,” Porthos added, grinning at Athos.

Athos just focused more on d’Artagnan, who had his arms wrapped around the mare’s neck in a hug, burying his nose in her mane. “You think he’ll be all right in doing parade duty with us in two weeks’ time?” Athos asked and Aramis’s good mood fell away as he settled his hat more firmly on his head while Porthos shot Athos a dark look.

Athos winced and bit back a sigh. Right, the parade duty was for the Duke of Savoy and Aramis had been the sole survivor (for all intents and purposes) of the Massacre of Savoy.

If Athos believed in God, which he did not, he might think that Portia’s illness, and survival, had actually been conceived by the Almighty Himself to give Aramis what the others could not; a distraction.

However, as he did not believe in God, he decided it was a very fortunate coincidence, even if it had come at the cost of d’Artagnan nearly working himself into an illness to match Portia’s.

That distraction was now gone, however, and Athos…well, Athos hadn’t really known Aramis before Savoy. Athos had only joined the Musketeers after the Massacre, earning his commission fairly quickly in hopes of filling up the ranks, though he had earned it by besting the, former, best swordsman in the Regiment.

When Aramis had started being around people again, he had followed Athos, and joined him in drinking, even buying a few rounds. He seemed to be racing Athos, in those early days of their acquaintanceship, to getting blackout drunk first and Porthos had always been so furious at Athos, as if Athos was to blame for his friend’s state.

Later, Athos would learn that Porthos was just picking him because he drank with Aramis, as Aramis hated drinking alone, and not realizing that Athos was already drinking when Aramis joined him.

When Aramis had come out of that dark place, he joined Athos and asked why he drank himself into oblivion. Apparently, all he had needed was a distraction and that distraction (a desire to help a new Musketeer with his demons when he had unknowing helped Aramis with his own demons, apparently) was the start of the story of how two Inseparables became three.

That…disconnect, however, with the Massacre also lead to Athos forgetting that that massacre was what almost drove Aramis into being a drunkard. At least, forgetting until Porthos glared at him darkly for bringing it up or asking about it or saying something that would remind Aramis of that snow-filled forest on Easter Sunday.

It was Porthos letting out a soft chuckle that drew Athos back out of his mind and he raised an eyebrow when he saw d’Artagnan falling in to the grass next to Portia and curl up, using Portia’s shoulder as a pillow once the mare had settled. The mare briefly lifted her head, as if to check on d’Artagnan before lowering her head back down and the pair dropped off instantly, all loose muscles and obviously easy breathing.

“Maybe he should move into the stables, instead of staying with Bonnacieux,” Aramis stated and Porthos gave a small smile.

“Probably be happier. Sleep better too,” Porthos muttered and Athos slowly stood up from where he was leaning against the stone wall.

“We’ll wake him up in time for lunch,” Athos stated and walked away from Porthos and Aramis to where their camp waited.

“Now, I am thinking that maybe it is a dialect of Italian…” Aramis began and Athos let out a sharp sigh.

Well…at least Aramis was distracted again.

Even if it came at the cost of d’Artagnan being badgered.

Athos would rescue the boy later, even if the boy had brought it upon himself in keeping what language he was speaking secret.

For now, he would let d’Artagnan play at being a distraction for Aramis. Aramis needed the distraction more than d’Artagnan needed the peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sometimes feel like I _get_ Athos and other times feel like I just massively screw up every time I write him even doing one action, so there is that.
> 
> Anyway, second chapter, YAY!!
> 
> Horses dying made me sob my heart out.
> 
> Portia, Roger, Petite, and Tristan are all fine.


	3. Learning the Truth (A Horse Falls Down, but comes out of it with abrasions that have to be watched)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm gonna explain a thing....
> 
> NEVER DO WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ WITH YOUR HORSES!!
> 
> Unless with permission from a vet, but abrasions can lead to...fun things. (I once couldn't ride a horse till the abrasions healed because they kept getting infected, but on another horse he was good to ride while healing, so long as it was light riding and he healed with only slight oddity in his hair, but otherwise it couldn't be noticed.)

"How bad is it?" Porthos asked as he held Petite's head while d'Artagnan carefully checked her over.

They had been caught by surprise riding back to Paris with sensitive missives for the King. Their attackers were obviously trained men, but no one had expected Petite to take the fall she did, with Porthos still on her back.

Porthos had gotten lucky as he had managed to get off her back before she crashed onto him, but the mare had been badly scrapped up from the fall, the saddle protecting her from some of it, but her reins had nearly lead to her getting her leg snapped. As it was, they had had to make a run for it on foot as best they could.

Petite had been a true Musketeer, however, and had managed to keep up, even though it was obvious she was in pain. Now, with the closest they had to a farrier (Porthos trusted d'Artagnan with Petite more than the actual farrier who looked after their horses, purely because d'Artagnan was one of them, but also because the boy was filled with horse sense...which he only seemed to use on horses) looking over her and a stream babbling by, d'Artagnan sighed. "Let's get her in the stream and hope it is deep enough to hold her. Then I'll know," d'Artagnan promised, Porthos quick in helping to remove her saddle and soon she was in the stream.

The water wasn't deep enough to have it running over her entirely, but d'Artagnan was quick to remove his cloak and use it like a bucket to pour over her back as Porthos held her still, leading her back to the bank as d'Artagnan continued. "Petite, darling Petite, such a good girl," d'Artagnan praised before he dissolved into his language, Petite lowering her head slightly as d'Artagnan began to clean everything off.

"Nothing's broken and...nothing's swollen," d'Artagnan stated and he let out a sigh as he stood up.

"If we weren't running for our lives, I'd suggest just walking with her. However...even at a walk, being on horses is faster, but she won't be able to carry the load she's used to. I honestly don't know if there is worse in there, only time will tell on that. I am hoping the water bath removed any threats of infections, but I won't know till later," d'Artagnan stated and sighed.

"Not to mention if she pulled any muscles in her legs," d'Artagnan added as he returned to Portia's bags, tugging them around as he began to remove bandages he kept for the horses, bandaging up the worst of Petite's injuries, the mare squealing in pain when he pressed on a worse than the rest spot.

"Then who will I ride?" Porthos asked.

"Roger," d'Artagnan answered as he continued to work on taking care of Petite.

"Roger will throw Porthos and then he'll have his skull split open," Athos stated from where he was carrying on watch with Aramis as d'Artagnan cared for the mare.

"No, he won't," d'Artagnan stated and stared at Porthos with something almost like grief in his eyes.

"I'll insure it. Now, Porthos, repeat after me..." d'Artagnan began as he continued to patch Petite together for the ride to Paris, and soon his language, one line, filled the air, said first by d’Artagnan, then Porthos.

Aramis, on Tristan, pouted.

*~*~*

Petite managed to avoid infection, but d’Artagnan was practically hovering to keep it that way, and always making sure that their horses were safe. At first, they thought it was just d’Artagnan, till he explained that he was worried that the horses may have pulled a muscle with the heavy work they had done, especially Petite, and wanted to make sure that none were hiding injuries.

Well, hiding in that they were too small to catch at the beginning before they began to cause problems, not that the horses were actually pretending that there was nothing wrong with them.

Petite was putting up with it rather well, considering she usually hated being fused over like this, and healing seamlessly, even along the worst of it on her front left leg, which she had gone down on first. “She’ll be all right then?” Porthos asked as he held the mare steady while d’Artagnan used some sort of poultice on her leg before bandaging it once more.

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. A month in this field will do all of our horses a world of good,” d’Artagnan stated as he pet Petite’s neck, the gentle mare immediately pushing into the gentle petting.

He smiled and scratched her neck before he stood up, taking his stool with him. Porthos scratched her cheek and then removed her halter, a gentle push sending her meandering back out to her three horse friends, Portia and Roger head to tail, using their tails to flick flies away while Tristan lay in the grass.

D’Artagnan walked over to the stone wall and hopped over it, Porthos following at a slower pace. “So…that thing you taught me to say, to keep Roger calm…what does it mean?” Porthos asked and d’Artagnan rubbed his thumb, lightly, along the stool’s seat, staring at the horses that lazed in the sunshine.

“Roughly? I am friend, I am safe,” d’Artagnan answered softly as he stared at the horses, his thumb still rubbing lightly against the stool.

Porthos smiled and stepped up next to the boy, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Too bad. I wanted to use it to curse,” he stated and d’Artagnan laughed hollowly at that, though he leaned into the hug.

*~*~*

“I just don’t think it is fair that only Porthos learned a sentence,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan ignored him as he helped Porthos make rabbit stew.

“More sage you think?” Porthos inquired and d’Artagnan shrugged.

“I think its fine,” d’Artagnan stated and Porthos huffed.

“Some farm boy you are,” Porthos grumbled and d’Artagnan laughed.

“We didn’t eat a lot of rabbit stew,” d’Artagnan responded, Athos watching as Aramis glowered at the two, having fallen silent upon realizing that d’Artagnan was ignoring him.

*~*~*

“…If you just _told_ me what the language _was_ -” Aramis needled later, only to get interrupted with d’Artagnan turning on Aramis, limbs tense, with a snarled, “It doesn't have a name!”

D’Artagnan took a step toward Aramis that had the older man leaning back a little, eyebrows raised, and it has Porthos shifting to step between them. “It never had one,” d’Artagnan bit out and Aramis frowned.

“How can a language not have a name?” Aramis questioned and d’Artagnan drew back slightly.

“Because Mother and I never got around to naming it,” d’Artagnan answered and turned on his heel, heading straight for the horses.

“Well, that explains why he’s so protective of it,” Porthos stated and Athos gave a nod.

Aramis watched d’Artagnan and the way he fell against Roger’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around the gelding’s neck, and burying his face into the gelding’s mane until Portia stepped forward, hiding the boy from his sight.


	4. Morning Apologies (Implied Racism, Implied Sexism, Past Animal Abuse, and Past Child Injury, plus Past Graphic Injury)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This directly follows, more or less, the last chapter.
> 
> Aka, I did not plan this five and one well.
> 
> (Five is nice and fluffy though.)

"I'm sorry," Aramis offered the next morning and d'Artagnan shrugged slightly as he scrapped the bran out of the bucket into four bowls he had brought with him.

"Something happen?" Aramis asked and d'Artagnan shook his head as he added half of the horses' grain ration to each of the bowls, mixing it together.

Picking up two bowls, he shoved them at Aramis. "You have Petite and Tristan," he stated and paused to glance at Porthos, who was awake and watching them.

"Would you fill the bucket with water for me please Porthos? I'll scrub it out later," d'Artagnan asked and Porthos nodded with a smile.

“Not a problem,” he stated and d’Artagnan gave a smile before he headed for the field, Aramis quickly walking to catch up as they made their way into the field.

“Really, d’Artagnan, I do apologize! I was…tactless,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan nodded slightly, getting up to sit on the stone wall.

He swung his legs around and scooted forward, Aramis carefully joined him, scooting down slightly so there would be room for two horses between them. Before Aramis could try to apologize to d’Artagnan again, he heard d’Artagnan whistle like a bird, only something was off about it.

Aramis looked into the field in time to see Roger half get up from where he was sleeping on the ground while Portia’s head lifted, ears pricked forward.

D’Artagnan whistled again and Roger hauled himself off the ground and Portia cantered over, slowly coming to a walk as D’Artagnan held the bowls out for them. “Aren’t you going to call Petite and Tristan over?” d’Artagnan asked as Portia began to eat from the left hand bowl while Roger came up to the right hand one.

“Oh, right,” Aramis answered and let out a sharp whistle.

Both Tristan and Petite’s heads snapped up, ears swiveling, while Portia and Roger side-stepped away from him. Aramis winced slightly, but gave another sharp whistle, which had Tristan trotting up, Petite close behind.

Tristan beat her however, jostling for the right hand bowl, while Petite stepped delicately between Roger and Tristan to eat from the left hand bow. “Why make bran mash?” Aramis asked.

“I bought some willow bark and made a tea with it. I noticed all the horses moving a little stiffly, and this is the easiest way to insure they get it,” d’Artagnan answered as his hands almost hit his lap as the two he was feeding shoved their noses into it more.

“This isn’t a normal amount, is it?” Aramis asked and d’Artagnan shook his head.

“No, it isn’t. Father always said to not change up the feed too much, too often, unless you have no choice, like a horse has had their mouth destroyed by some…well, not unless you have to,” d’Artagnan answered, hands tightening briefly on the bowls and his voice hardening slightly before he seemed to force himself to relax.

Portia and Roger lifted their noses from their licked clean bowls and d’Artagnan set them down next to him on the wall between Aramis and himself. He then immediately reached out, murmuring in that soft language, d’Artagnan’s language (though what was once a joke was now so obviously true) curling through the air.

Portia immediately stretched forward in response and scratched her chin along d’Artagnan’s shoulder while Roger pressed his nose to d’Artagnan’s knee. Tristan pulled away then while Petite lifted her nose out of the bowl and flicked her tail, ears twitching as she looked around, d’Artagnan wrapping an arm loosely around Portia’s neck while he played with Roger’s forelock.

Aramis followed d’Artagnan’s earlier example and stacked his bowls with d’Artagnan’s, resisting the urge to snort when Tristan walked away from him, Petite following, while Roger and Portia remained. “D’Artagnan,” Aramis began and d’Artagnan sighed, pressing his head, gently against Portia’s neck, the mare having stopped scratching at his shoulder.

“I know, you’re sorry, and I understand that you just want to know, but…for so long it was just…me. And the last time I shared it, more or less, it did not end well for me, to put it mildly,” d’Artagnan answered softly, and Aramis gave a small chuckle.

“Surely it couldn’t have been that bad,” Aramis stated as d’Artagnan seemed to still, turning his head slightly so his forehead was pressed to her neck, Roger’s ears flicking slightly forward as he raised his head slightly, though not enough to dislodge d’Artagnan’s hand.

“Father had hired a man, who called himself Francisco. He was hired and a trial basis, to see if he could bring something new to the horses’ training regime. The mares go through the same training as the Musketeer horses, because Father always said the dam was more important than the sire. They could risk a flighty sire, but never a flighty mare, just not as strenuous. Too much stress makes their heats go off,” d’Artagnan began, rubbing his forehead against Portia’s neck slightly, his hand falling to his lap to be nudged gently by Roger.

“Francisco conducted himself very differently when no one could see him. He was a brute of a man who thought fear would get horses to do what he wanted, that they just had to obey. That…” d’Artagnan began to explain, voice tightening and his shoulders tensing, Portia nickering softly as he breathed shakily before he slumped against Portia.

“He had a very set image of who deserved to be treated as if they were human and those that did not fit that image were worse than dirt. That if they did not fit into his image, they had to obey him unquestioningly and if he had to put the fear of man into them so they would, so be it,” d’Artagnan stated and smiled.

“I had…started teaching the horses to kick on command with a word and I would say the word and they’d kick out. Not…actually hit him, and he knew better than to hit the horses hard enough that they left marks, but he’d…he’d yank them around by their head if he was on their back to the point I thought he’d send them to the ground,” he continued and Aramis frowned slightly at the discrepancy.

Before he could ask, d’Artagnan seemed to shrink in on himself and it was only the feeling of bowls against his thigh that told Aramis he had been shifting ever closer during the course of the story. “One day, he heard me, and he dragged me out by my hair and threw me into the mud. I think he managed to crack ribs before he screamed in agony because his knee got kicked so hard that it shattered and then there was a lot of yelling and since then I’ve worked very hard to not have people overhear, only…you three made me forget,” d’Artagnan stated and looked over at Aramis.

“Made me forget that sharing that language ends up hurting more than not. The only…the only time it never hurts is when I talk with horses. I still think something about it calms them, no matter what anyone says about how they can’t understand us,” d’Artagnan answered and Aramis reached over and gripping d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if they understand your words, but I’m sure the reason they understand that language is because it comes from the one thing every creature with a soul knows,” Aramis answered and d’Artagnan stared at him, a frown making him look almost like a kicked puppy, especially with the way his eyes were tearing up.

“Love. They hear the love your mother had for you and you have for them, and you had for your mother, in those words, with every syllable and they respond to it because they know, a voice with that much love could never hurt them,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan stared at him until Aramis carefully pulled him into a hug, minding the arm around Portia’s neck (d’Artagnan easily let her go, the mare snorting but otherwise not reacting) and the bowls on the wall as he did so.

D’Artagnan tentatively returned it, burying his face into Aramis’s shoulder as he did so, Aramis turning to place his cheek on the boy’s head, surprised, and not, to see Athos standing there.

Well, that explained Roger’s shift of attention.

Athos cleared his throat then and d’Artagnan jumped slightly, pulling back, Aramis letting him. “Well, as you two are no longer engaging in a silent battle, breakfast is ready,” Athos stated and d’Artagnan nodded as he rubbed his face with his sleeve, before he pressed a kiss to Portia’s forehead, and then doing the same to Roger surprisingly, before he got off the wall, twisting at the last moment so he landed on his feet instead of his back in front of Athos.

Aramis collected the bowls and moved at a more sedate pace to follow after, making sure the bowls stayed with the bran mash bucket before settling next to Porthos to get his own meal.

*~*~*

“How did you know he acted different when he wasn’t around anyone?” Porthos asked after lunch and d’Artagnan didn’t even bother giving a glare.

He just muttered something about, “of course you two were listening,” before he poked at his food. “Because…I was nobody, to him,” d’Artagnan answered and ignored the way they focused on him, even if eyes didn’t lift from a pistol or a sword.

“I didn’t fit into his image, so…he didn’t treat me, unless my father was around, like I was human. He’d order me to do something and I obeyed purely because I was terrified that I wouldn’t be allowed to stay if I didn’t and I couldn’t leave him alone with the horses,” d’Artagnan continued and gave a small shrug, watching his friends idly.

“Except with the whole treating me like I didn’t exist unless he had something for me to do, it wasn’t as horrible as it could have been,” he finished.

“Francisco you said?” Aramis asked lightly, polishing his pistol a bit more roughly than usual.

“That’s what he called himself. He was about as Spanish as Athos. I never learned his real name, but I’m sure he died as a beggar, as his leg had to be…removed,” d’Artagnan answered calmly.

“Removed?” Athos inquired.

“It got infected and well…that might have been because Mother dragged him through the mud on that side and then it had to be removed. Father did try to find a place for him, even though he was scum but…well, he didn’t keep it,” d’Artagnan stated with a shrug and Porthos laughed while Aramis smiled.

“Your mother tried to kill him?” Athos asked and d'Artagnan hesitated to answer before he nodded, the shrugged.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, though I think she would have phrased it as, 'she shoved it into God's hands',” d’Artagnan responded and rolled his shoulders before he looked out at the field where their horses grazed, tails swishing lazily in the afternoon sun.

Athos, thankfully, did not bring it up again.

(And no one said anything when d'Artagnan didn't sleep that night.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some minor editing in 'Goodbye and Hello, Five Years Apart'.
> 
> It just one sentence because I realized d'Art would have probably paid for her boarding, not had the pay not given to him, since that's not how it worked back then (which is my bad).
> 
> .......
> 
> It may have also been inspired by a prompt.
> 
> Just a little.


	5. Listen and Repeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so cute and tiny!!!
> 
> And so much fluff.
> 
> So much.
> 
> And some pain too, but mostly fluff.

“In the second half of the sentence, it is the Italian rules,” d’Artagnan corrected as he slowly pushed himself up to lean against the alley’s wall.

“I think I can curse however I damn well please,” Porthos answered as he knelt down in the mud next to him, shoving his head scarf off as he did so and d’Artagnan chuckled as he clutched tighter at his head, the blood forcing him to keep one eye closed.

“Aramis is gonna kill me, never mind what Athos will do. I’m supposed to be looking out for you, not the other way around,” Porthos stated, pressing a hand over d’Artagnan’s while forcing d’Artagnan to meet his eyes.

D’Artagnan hissed and twisted slightly at the pressure. “Don’t move,” Porthos ordered and d’Artagnan grunted, even as Porthos tried to force him to look into his eyes.

“Good, you’re eyes aren’t odd and…nothing is swollen,” Porthos stated, shifting his hand to poke at his skull, which had d’Artagnan flinching.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos shouted as Aramis shouted, “Porthos!”

“Over here!” Porthos answered and d’Artagnan groaned as he tried to tug himself away from the shout, failing slightly.

D’Artagnan cursed fluently in his language and Porthos repeated it with a strained grin on his face.

*~*~*

D'Artagnan flopped back onto their shared bed in their room, laughing loud enough to cause someone to shout at them to shut it while Aramis glowered at him. "What did I do wrong now?" Aramis grouched and d'Artagnan reached over to pat his ankle before he relaxed on the bed.

"You switched the tenses," d'Artagnan stated with a smile as he settled more firmly, tucking his arm behind his head before he pulled his hand back to rest on his stomach.

"You changed the rules halfway through!" Aramis accused as he slumped against the wall at the bed’s head and d’Artagnan nodded.

"Yes, Mother and I did," d'Artagnan responded brightly and Aramis nudged his shoulder with his foot, which had d’Artagnan shifting away with a smile before Aramis sighed.

“Repeat it for me?” Aramis asked and d’Artagnan snorted before he nodded.

 _“It is a four days’ ride away,”_ d’Artagnan recited, the words rolling easily across his tongue in a way no other language did and Aramis groaned.

“I think you said four in there,” he grumbled and d’Artagnan nodded, even as he shifted to get comfortable, eyes closing.

He didn’t shift away from Aramis tapping his foot against d’Artagnan’s shoulder this time, instead just opening his eyes enough to see Aramis. “Yes?” he inquired softly.

“Why am I the only one who has trouble with this?” Aramis asked.

“Because Spanish was the language in your home, you’ve never known the Gascon language, and you are fighting learning because everything in you is rebelling in saying almost right words to wrong rules,” d’Artagnan answered simply as he closed his eyes fully again.

“Sure you want to stay that way?” Aramis asked and d’Artagnan gave a small shrug.

“I kick,” Aramis warned and d’Artagnan shrugged again.

He didn’t resist when Aramis grabbed his wrist and pulled him around on the bed. “I don’t want to explain a broken nose to Athos,” Aramis grumbled and d’Artagnan snorted as he slipped into sleep.

*~*~*

“Be careful where you use that. This much…strain around…” Athos trailed off and d’Artagnan gave him a weak smile.

“I know,” d’Artagnan stated and he slowly stood up straight.

 _“A wren can’t be caged, Athos,”_ d’Artagnan stated softly, unsure if Athos heard him or not right up until the moment Athos repeated it back to him.

He then tipped his head back to drink the rest of his wine bottle and d’Artagnan replaced the filled bottle with an empty one that had been knocked off earlier in the evening, ignoring the twinge of guilt as he did so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before Episode 6
> 
> Before Episode 6 (though barely)
> 
> After Episode 7 (probably after Athos returns and after d'Art and Constance do their thing....I am so torn over that because one hand, cheating, on the other, the time period it isn't like she can actually leave him)


	6. Words of Calm, Words of Love (PTSD, someone gets attacked after waking their sleeping companion a bit too suddenly, but only bruises sustained)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while. Basically, this went, "write, delete, write, delete, write, delete, cussing while writing, more creative cussing while writing" while returning to the Cesspool of Misery that is my college.
> 
> Woo-hoo.
> 
> *groans*
> 
> Anyway, originally horses supposed to show up, but that plan changed, so the last two chapters don't have our favorite horsey characters, but hey, I got to Episode 9.
> 
> So cute.
> 
> Anyway, here it is!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

Porthos woke on the first dawn at Bourbon-les-Eaux not to the gentle nudge d’Artagnan would give his ankle to wake him up while they were on the road, but to the song of birds greeting the morning.

At first, he was confused as to why he was hearing birds when at the Garrison before it registered that they were outside and he slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked around, frowning when he saw d’Artagnan, fully dressed, curled up on his horse’s blanket, face buried in the crook of his elbow.

“Leave him be,” Athos ordered as he stepped around d’Artagnan easily, fully dressed, though he was tugging his pauldron on more securely as he did so.

“All right. Want me to wake Aramis closer to breakfast or now?” Porthos asked and Athos gave a small shrug.

“You can do whichever you wish. Just let d’Artagnan sleep. I’m going to check on the horses and then do a quick scouting through the area,” Athos stated and Porthos frowned.

“You sure that’s wise?” Porthos asked.

“I’ll have Roger,” Athos answered and Porthos nodded in agreement as Athos walked to where the horses, and the Queen’s carriage, rested.

*~*~*

“I almost don’t want to wake him,” Aramis stated as he stared down at d’Artagnan’s curled up form, the shiny new pauldron catching the early morning light that peered through the trees as he hadn’t bothered to remove his uniform before dropping off to sleep.

Aramis wondered if d’Artagnan’s unwillingness to part with it unless he absolutely had to was in any way like how he sometimes seemed terrified that if they leaved his sight, they would disappear. “I don’t want to wake him up either, but breakfast is almost ready,” Porthos stated and Aramis glanced over before looking around.

“Where’s Athos?” Aramis asked and Porthos looked up from where he was cooking breakfast.

“He said he was going to scout a bit, and he’ll probably dote on Roger after he’s done that. At least, dote on Roger in his fashion of doting,” Porthos answered as he continued to heat up the salted meat up for breakfast.

Aramis chuckled and knelt down to shake d’Artagnan’s shoulder and…

The air was forced out of Aramis’s lungs as he was shoved onto his back, a body on top of him, staring at the sky through the evergreen branches.

There was a cool knife pressed against his throat in a fashion that forced his head back far enough to keep him from seeing who it was (though he knew it had to be d’Artagnan), and knees were pinning his thighs to the ground.

Knuckles were pressed into his chest and the back, as well as sides, of his shirt collar were pressing against his skin, making Aramis feel very much like had a noose made of metal and cloth around his neck.

Aramis focused on breathing through his nose, slowly, even as frantic panting filled the air, almost as if d’Artagnan had just run a few miles, though it seemed to do nothing to dispel an odd sort of stillness that seemed to surround them.

 _“My God, Aramis, I’m sorry,”_ d’Artagnan gasped and the stillness in the air broke with removal of the knife.

The weight lifted off shortly after followed by what sounded like a main-gauche being dropped in the dirt, and Aramis slowly sat up.

D’Artagnan had pushed himself up against the tree he had picked to sleep near, Portia’s blanket twisted about in the dirt, his main-gauche lying near it. He was curled in protectively on himself, fingers buried in his hair as he stared at Aramis with something almost like fear.

Porthos was watching them, having shifted slightly from his original position over their breakfast, probably to pull d’Artagnan off if it seemed their youngest was going to actually make him bleed. “D’Artagnan,” Aramis started to greet, but d’Artagnan just seemed to make himself small at his name.

Aramis shifted to crouch down in front of d’Artagnan, wincing when he saw the way their youngest looked around, as if trying to find an escape. _“It is all right. You weren’t awake; I should have been on my feet better,”_ Aramis responded softly, but d’Artagnan just shook his head, gripping his head harder by the hair.

 _“Hey, nothing happened, you’re safe,”_ Porthos soothed, taking the pot off the fire.

The words just seemed to make d’Artagnan worse as he flinched away from Porthos and curled in tighter on himself. Both stilled just as Athos returned. “What happened?” he asked and then shook his head when he saw d’Artagnan huddled against the trunk of the tree, his main-gauche in the dirt.

“Never mind,” Athos stated and walked over to d’Artagnan.

 _“D’Artagnan, you weren’t in the wrong,”_ Athos stated as urged Aramis out of the spot closest to d’Artagnan as their youngest hunched further in on himself.

D’Artagnan shook his head and Athos let out a soundless sigh before he slowly knelt down next to d’Artagnan and shifted to look d’Artagnan in the eyes. He reached out slowly and carefully covered d’Artagnan’s hands with his own. _“Come along let go of your hair before you rip some out again,”_ Athos soothed gently, even as d’Artagnan curled in more on himself, though the _again_ had Aramis sharing a worried look with Porthos, who only shrugged slightly.

 _“Please?”_ Athos questioned softly and Aramis felt his eyebrows raise as his eyes widened at the word.

Athos was not one, generally, to ask like that, as if he wanted to know if he could enter their youngest’s space.

D’Artagnan slowly looked up at Athos with big wide, sad, eyes that reminded Aramis far too much of a starving, beaten, puppy, though he was still clinging to his hair. _“Let go,”_ Athos ordered and d’Artagnan slowly released his hair, Athos taking his hands to keep them from returning.

Athos gave d’Artagnan a small smile and reached out to gently pet d’Artagnan’s hair. _“What was the terror?”_ Athos asked gently and d’Artagnan shook his head slightly.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos said and d’Artagnan moved, crashing against Athos to bury his head into Athos’s shoulder.

Athos grunted, but otherwise remained balanced, easily supporting d’Artagnan. He lifted one hand to rest against the back of d’Artagnan’s skull and the other wrapped around him. _“What was the terror?”_ Athos repeated softly and d’Artagnan shook his head against Athos’s shoulder.

Athos let out another soundless sigh, but continued to hold d’Artagnan close. “Porthos,” Athos called and Porthos nodded.

“Yeah?”

“How about after breakfast, you and I see if we can get d’Artagnan to take us on with one hand behind his back, as he’s said he could, when was it…last week?” Athos asked as d’Artagnan seemed to try and bury himself further in Athos’s embrace.

Porthos chuckled and nodded. “Yeah. And maybe we’ll finally get him not looking so much like his mum dressed him,” Porthos stated and d’Artagnan snorted.

His grip on Athos had eased a bit, but not enough, not yet. Athos also hadn’t tried to pull away yet. “Just because I like having my uniform neat doesn’t mean it looks like my mum dressed me,” d’Artagnan protested in a muffled voice and Porthos let out a bark of laughter, Athos smiling slightly in what could almost be considered agreement with Porthos’s amusement.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan dropped like a stone that night, though this time he removed the pauldron.

He was thoroughly worn out by not only dueling Porthos and Athos alone, but Aramis dragging him off to go hunting, and the panicked state he had driven himself into after almost hurting Aramis (which both d’Artagnan and Aramis had fully apologized to each about multiple times over).

It was only when all three were reassured he was asleep that Porthos looked at Athos. “Did you know he’d react like that?” he asked and Athos made a motion with his hand.

“I knew it would be bad, but it only happens when in the calm after a mission. I figure if we keep him busy, he won’t have any terrors, but that’ll only work for so long,” Athos answered with a small shrug.

“It won’t work for much longer. I wonder if it was set off by his farm burning down,” Aramis asked and Porthos twitched before he nodded.

“Quite likely. Our youngest really doesn’t like fire. He’s always furthest from it. I worry what’ll happen to him if he has to face a fire,” Porthos answered and Athos just stared at the passed out d’Artagnan.

“Well, we’ll do our best to try and hold off the terrors until we can…help him deal with them, or he might not keep that pauldron,” Athos stated and Aramis nodded in agreement, even as he leaned back on his own horse’s blanket to get some rest, his jacket his pillow.

“Oh, and Aramis?” Athos called.

“Hmm?” Aramis questioned.

“You have middle of the night watch.”

Aramis groaned and did his best to turn over and bury his head into his jacket while Porthos laughed, softly, at his punishment.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to remind everyone; I AM ACCEPTING PROMPTS FOR THIS VERSE!!
> 
> It can be anything, so long as it can link to this verse, and it is _your_ prompt, not one that you want to see filled from the kinkmeme or something.


End file.
